


Absence

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: This Place is a Shelter [2]
Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, the closest I could get to fluff, which means it contains mild gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I missed you," Jack says as the bathysphere begins to sink. "For a while I wondered if you'd ever come back."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://biotrash.dreamwidth.org/427.html?thread=28843#cmt28843) prompt on the new kink meme.

"I missed you," Jack says as the bathysphere begins to sink. "For a while I wondered if you'd ever come back." He sounds a lot calmer than he should; a lot calmer than he _feels_ , given the circumstances. Fort Frolic is a place of nightmares in plaster form; it'll be a long time before he can comfortably turn his back on statues again. And as for Sander Cohen-

"He shut me out, Jack, but I wasn't ever gone. Just waiting. I'm back now, ain't I?" Atlas is a soothing voice on the other end of the radio, and Jack has never been happier in his life. He slumps in the padded seat and allows himself to feel comfortable. Just for a minute or two.

"Those bandages you sent me came in handy," he says in a conversational tone. "I've never lost that much blood before." He sounds too calm. Too numb to the horror, and the pain, and he is distantly aware that this should be concerning.

Atlas seems to agree. "What happened? You get nicked by a Big Daddy?"

"I did," Jack says agreeably. "Also frozen, set on fire, and stabbed several times. By a _statue_." He glances down at his torso and is pleased to find that blood hasn't started seeping through his jumper. He's getting better at bandaging. That's good. He's proud of that.

"A word of advice from someone who knows: you might want to consider learning to dodge."

The bathysphere rocks gently. Through the glass porthole, Jack sees distant movement in the water; fish, turtles, more fish. It's oddly calming. None of them want him dead, for starters.

"How much blood are we talking about here?" Atlas asks suddenly. Jack blinks, surprised to find that the water outside has darkened, and Rapture's lights are a distant glow. He must have dozed off for a few minutes. He didn't mean to. But the bathysphere is comfortable, and it lulls him into a blurred state of apathy. Does he really have to leave? If they wait long enough, Ryan will die of old age. And Jack won't need to use up what's left of his bandages.

"Jack? Can you hear me? _How much blood_?"

Jack drags himself reluctantly upright. It doesn't hurt; the painkillers are doing their job, it seems. "I don't know, I didn't measure it."

"How are you feeling? Dizzy? Cold?" There is a _thump_ on the other side of the radio, and the sound of pages being frantically rifled through. "I've dug up this here manual on first aid, it says you should _check for foreign objects in the wound_ , and then _apply firm pressure directly onto the wound, using_ \- wait, I think you might've done this bit. It also says we need to watch out for shock. How's your pulse? You feel any nausea?"

Jack thinks about this. "Not really. I might need food soon though; I lost most of mine after that Splicer burned me."

"Right, right. I can help you with that, no problems." Atlas turns the page, muttering something about _hypovolaemic shock_. "It also says you need to _stay warm, but not too warm_ \- well that's just bloody unhelpful. _Seek medical attention_ , also unhelpful, _undertake a secondary assessment_ ; shame we didn't keep that Doctor Steinman alive, isn't it?"

"Not really."

"Suppose not." Atlas clears his throat. "Apparently I need to _reassure_. It doesn't give any more detail than that. Reassure how? Should I talk about the weather? There isn't any. Idle gossip? There's nobody to talk about, they're all either Spliced or dead. What about- I don't know, boyo, would you like a lecture on Marx?" He makes a frustrated sound. "Now I don't know who wrote this pathetic excuse for a manual, but I hope he's rotting somewhere in a Splicer-infested building because he didn't know enough medicine to bandage his own goddamn wounds."

Atlas is angry, Jack realises. Not at him, or anything he's done; Atlas is angry because Jack is hurt, and he can't work out what he should do to help.

"I'm feeling very reassured," he says gently. "You did well, thank you."

"No thanks to this daft idiot." Jack hears a _thud_ ; it sounds suspiciously like a large book being violently thrown at a wall.

He lifts the hem of his jumper and winces. The bandages are starting to stain; he might need to add a few more layers. Still, it's not as bad as it could have been, and he suspects he might be healing already. His smaller wounds close up within the space of minutes; burns fade away, torn muscles re-knit themselves. This one will take a bit longer, but all he can really do for it is wait.

"I'll be fine," he says. "I think it's starting to close, maybe. If you can find another health kit to send me, and something to eat..." He feels guilty about his request as soon as he makes it. If Atlas doesn't have those things on hand, he may end up putting himself in danger just to find supplies for Jack. That's not something he wants. He'd rather bleed out in the bathysphere than cause Atlas to get hurt. Maybe he shouldn't have asked at all-

The bathysphere gives a sudden lurch and changes course abruptly.

"Don't panic," Atlas tells him. "I'm redirecting you. Ryan can wait another hour or so; he's not going anywhere, and I'm not convinced you won't keel over dead before you actually reach him. I've got your supplies here with me. It's past time we met, anyway."

"That's dangerous," Jack argues.

"Well you should have thought of that before you went and got yourself beaten to a pulp by a Big Daddy, shouldn't you?" Atlas retorts, and the argument ends there. Atlas controls where the bathysphere goes, and the only form of protest Jack could put up is pulling the _stop_ lever. And he won't do that. He can't. He's going to see Atlas, in person. He'll finally have answers to all the questions he hasn't asked; how tall is Atlas, what colour are his eyes. What do his smiles look like- does he smile at all?

The bathysphere docks without warning, and Jack lurches to the door. He very pointedly doesn't clutch his side; he's fine, he really is, and there's no need to worry anyone.

_I shouldn't be here_ , he thinks, though he doesn't actually know where 'here' is. _If Ryan saw me arrive, if he finds out where I am- what if I've led him straight to Atlas?_

"Welcome to Hephaestus," Atlas says through the radio. "I've redirected you to one of the engineers' entrances. Works in our favour, actually; Ryan won't see you coming this way, so you'll have a better chance of getting past his security. Head down the corridor and take the first left, I'll meet you there. And would you kindly try not to die on the way?"

He doesn't die on the way. He doesn't even stagger, and it doesn't _feel_ like he's dripping blood as he goes, but then again he's not brave enough to actually look. Better not to know how much of a mess he is. Better to tell himself that Atlas is seeing him at his best, his strongest- because the thought of appearing as anything less is just too much.

Down the corridor and first on the left; the door slides open as he approaches, and on the other side is Atlas.

_He's my height_ , is Jack's first thought. He tends to stand taller than most Splicers he's met, but Atlas looks him in the eyes (blue eyes, cold, until they warm abruptly at the sight of his visitor). It's a good first thought; his second is something along the lines of, _he doesn't look too pleased to see me_ , followed shortly by, _oh. I guess I should have added another layer of bandages_.

"Christ, you're a mess," Atlas says. "Come in, let's get you off your feet and see how bad the damage is."

"It's nice to meet you, finally," Jack says, and then his manners desert him and he slumps against the doorway while the world spins around him.

He's distantly aware of Atlas slinging an arm around him and hauling him into the room beyond, reciting a list of curses that goes beyond the ones Jack's familiar with and into uncharted territory. Most of them are directed at him; he makes an attempt to defend himself, but nothing comes out. It's easier to let Atlas call him names, and drag him along to wherever it is they're going.

"Intelligent, I told them," Atlas says savagely. Or maybe not; there's something wrong with his voice that makes him hard to understand. Jack blurs out the words and focuses on the tone instead. Irritated. Reproving. And underneath it all, worried. "I want the kid smart enough not to need me holding his hand the whole way, 'cause if he can't take care of himself then he's no use to me. Hah! That'll teach me. You want a life lesson, kid? Don't trust nobody with 'Doctor' in front of their name. They'll take your money and screw you over with a smile. Just look at yourself."

"The statues were alive," Jack mumbles with a sort of detached horror. "They moved when I looked away."

"Yeah, well Cohen always was a bit gone in the head. When all this is over, I'm gonna need to have a nice long talk to him about how much I don't appreciate having my transmissions blocked." Something about the way he says it suggests that Sander Cohen will be lucky to survive the conversation. "Here we go. Sit down, let's take a look at you."

Jack sits down on what feels like a couch of some sorts. It's comfortable; he'd be happy to curl up on it and sleep, but Atlas is _right there_ , leaning over him and tugging at his jumper. That comes off, as does his shirt, and then the world starts spinning again. In the distance, someone is cursing. Pressing a wad of bandages to his side and telling him to _hold them there goddammit;_ grabbing his other arm and injecting him with something that heats him up from the inside out.

"Don't you _dare_ die on me, you hear?" someone says, and Jack nods in response. He'll try. He can't remember this someone's name, but their words have a weight that reaches him when nothing else does. He trusts this person. "Ryan's just around the corner, this ain't the time for pushing up daisies. Would you kindly _not die_."

He doesn't.

Eventually things stabilise; Jack finds himself lying lengthwise along the couch, his back against the cushions and his head on something soft. He stretches gingerly.

"Hold still," Atlas says. "You're on the mend, but it'll take a few minutes. Just...relax. Don't move. I saved your life, the least you can do is listen to me."

"Thank you," Jack tells him. He holds still, and places the other man's voice as coming from somewhere above him. Close, though. Jack blinks, and Atlas swims into focus, sitting on the couch with Jack's head on one of his thighs.

_Oh_ , Jack thinks. _I guess he's forgiven me_. A moment later there's a hand in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead.

"I hope you realise what a nightmare you are to keep alive," Atlas says in a conversational tone. "And don't you try and tell me otherwise, I know what I'm talking about. You throw yourself head-first into fights with monsters three times your size-"

"And I win," Jack points out.

"And _sometimes_ you win. Wherever you came from, they clearly didn't breed you for self-preservation, and I'd love to have a few words with them about that oversight."

"I don't think self-preservation is something you can breed for," Jack says uncertainly, and Atlas makes a dismissive gesture.

"You'd be surprised." He cards his fingers through Jack's hair, giving it a firm tug. Easily the most pleasant rebuke Jack can remember; he closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Throat exposed. Vulnerable. His instincts should be screaming, flashing blinding red warnings inside his skull, but all he finds is silence.

"You're quite a revelation, you know," Atlas says. He pushes a hand through Jack's hair again, fluffing it up in odd directions. "Not what I was expecting."

"Is that bad?"

Jack opens his eyes and finds Atlas looking at him speculatively. "Haven't decided yet. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Jack smiles. _Wait and see_. That implies time, maybe a great deal of time; he's often wondered what Atlas' plans might consist of, once Ryan is out of the way. Whether they include him. But it seems Atlas will keep him, and the thought eases a tension Jack hadn't even noticed before now.

Ryan has to die. And after that, there'll be sunshine. He can almost feel it on his face, and it's more than worth the things he'll have to do to get there.

Atlas jiggles a knee impatiently under his head, and Jack sits up with no small amount of reluctance. He doesn't quite dare complain, though he'd have been happy dozing off where he was. But Atlas must have things to do, and Ryan can't be left where he is forever.

"How're you feeling now?" Atlas asks. "You healing up? It shouldn't be taking this long to mend, should it?"

Jack shrugs. He doesn't know.

"Well, only one way to find out then. Hold still, would you? And don't look so worried; I was a doctor for a few months once, I'm pretty sure I remember some of it." Atlas pulls a lethal-looking knife out of his pocket. The bandages part easily underneath it, revealing blood-smeared skin, and no damage whatsoever. Everything as it should be. It's nothing special to Jack; this is what happens when he hurts himself, and presumably it's the same for other people as well.

Atlas seems fascinated by the change. He grazes his fingertips over Jack's abdomen and ribs, where the worst of the blood reveals the shape his wound took, while it still existed. It doesn't anymore. As far as Jack is concerned, they can forget about it now. A healed wound is nothing special.

Being touched is a different matter. It's something he has no experience with, as far as he knows; do people normally have warm fingers? Are they all so careful (and there's something in the back of his mind that remembers _clinical_ , rubber gloves and needles, but it's gone before he can grasp for it), so needlessly wary of pressing too hard?

"I'm fine," Jack points out. Atlas gives him a distracted smile.

"I see that. I knew you would be, it's something I specifically- but seeing it in the flesh is something else. You're a walking miracle, boyo. Nobody else like you in the whole world."

_That can't be true_ , Jack thinks. But he doesn't point this out. If Atlas thinks he's something valuable, _unique_ , why disabuse him of the notion? How strange it is to feel appreciated. Treasured, even; he follows the path of Atlas' fingers with his eyes, where they can't seem to keep from touching him. No longer pretending it's the wound they're looking for. Jack breathes slow and deep, and lets Atlas press a palm to his abdomen. And then higher; he stops with his hand on Jack's chest, over his heart.

"I told you I was fine," Jack says. His voice rasps more than it usually does. He can't work out why.

"Nothing I hate more than an 'I told you so', kid," Atlas tells him, but there is amusement in his voice and Jack doesn't take the comment to heart.

"Sorry," he says. "For worrying you."

Atlas removes his hand from Jack's chest, strokes it through his hair again; Jack ducks his head and lets it happen. He could spend a great deal of time like this. If only time and Ryan would stop existing, and he could stay here. Atlas has firm hands; he knows Jack won't break is his hair is tugged on to the point of pain (but never over. Atlas knows where the limits lie, better than Jack himself).

"Are you now?" Atlas asks. "Will you be more careful from now on?"

"Only where you can see me," Jack says before he can stop himself. He looks up, worried he might have pushed too far- and finds Atlas laughing.

"It's like I said; you're a nightmare, and a whole lot more trouble than you're _worth_. Don't know why I even bother trying with you, I really don't."

He pushes Jack's fringe out of his eyes, fussing with it until it sits where he wants it. Traces down the line of Jack's nose with a fingertip, and then cups his chin in one hand. Warm, again. Jack is very aware of every inch of contact between them, and every inch of space where contact should be. He wants- but what does he want? His instincts seem to have a few ideas. They make suggestions he hesitates to obey, if only because he doesn't _know_. He doesn't dare push too far with Atlas. Rapture is a cold and lonely place, rotting from the inside out, and Jack has no one else he can trust.

So he waits. Watches closely and sees the change in how Atlas looks at him, how his eyes dart to Jack's mouth and flick away again. _Go on_ , he thinks, hoping Atlas will hear it somehow. _I want this to be what I remember of this place. Not killing Ryan, not bleeding out all over the floor. Make this something even Rapture can't ruin. Like the flowers in Arcadia._

That's a pleasant memory. Jack smiles, and then Atlas is leaning in, holding his chin in place between thumb and forefinger.

It's a good kiss. Jack senses this even through the dizzying sparks it ignites in his chest, and the haze of his own inexperience. A _skilled_ kiss, that understands his uncertainty and reassures; teaches him to tilt his head and follow his partner's cues. He forces down the part of himself that tells him to turn and run ( _nobody who gets this close ever means him anything but harm_. _They have needles and stethoscopes or they have guns and pipes, drills and Plasmids_ ), because Atlas wouldn't hurt him.

Atlas is scruffy hair and stubble that scrapes, and he smells of motor oil, sweat and (barely, but it's there, he'd know it anywhere) what traces of Jack's blood he didn't manage to wash off entirely. He's more patient than Jack deserves, and more gentle than he needs to be. Jack reaches for him blindly, sliding his arms loosely around the other man's waist. He doesn't cling. And he doesn't run.

It ends too soon, as with all good things. Jack finds himself strangely breathless; his heart pounds like it does mid-combat. He licks his lips and thinks, _yes_. This is something he could try again. Get used to, even. He goes to says so and stops before he gets as much as word out.

Atlas doesn't shove him off, or even move away from him. But his expression alone is enough of a warning that Jack freezes in place.

"Ah, fuck," Atlas says quietly. "That right there might be the biggest mistake I've made since letting Peach Wilkins into the fold. _Dammit_."

This makes no sense whatsoever. "I haven't tried to kill you," Jack points out. He still has his hands resting awkwardly at Atlas' waist, and doesn't know if he should remove them or not. He doesn't understand what the problem is.

_Something political_ , he thinks wearily. _Something ridiculously, pointlessly complex. Nothing is simple here. And nobody gets to be happy_. It seems so wrong to him, that they should both give so much of themselves for a city that doesn't appreciate it, and for no thanks whatsoever. No spare moments to spend together, no time to build on their alliance. No time for sharing silence.

"Yet," Atlas says; it takes Jack a moment to work out what he's talking about, and then he shrugs it off as impossible. "I mean it. Don't make this harder on yourself than it needs to be. We leave it here, it never happened, and later you'll thank me for sparing you the extra hurt."

"I'm not sure you've noticed," Jack says wryly. "But the hurt never lasts long. Whatever happens, I'll heal. You don't need to worry about me."

Atlas shakes his head. "Clueless. Well, suppose I can't fault you for that. It'll be your funeral in the end."

"You're not making any sense," Jack says. It gets him no response, and that's good enough for him. He leans in, tilts his head like Atlas showed him and brushes his lips against the other man's. Does it again, and again, until he feels a response. Until Atlas wraps a hand around the back of his neck and takes control again.

For the first time in memory, Jack feels an absence of fear; it has a name and a face, and it shakes him to his core.

He ends it, at last. Because he has to. All good things crash and burn if he enjoys them for too long, and this will be no exception. It's better to stop and treasure the memory. Earn himself another. He has a job to do.

"I'll make sure Ryan never hurts anyone again," Jack swears, and means it. He looks Atlas in the eyes and _burns_ with how much he means it. "For you. And me. And when it's done you'll get to feel the sunshine again, like you wanted. Everything will be fine."

Atlas shakes his head; there's a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. An odd expression. Not quite pleasant. "Doesn't work that way, Jack. Hold onto your dreams if they make the road smoother, but don't mistake them for reality."

"The only part of this place that feels _real_ is you."

"You poor bastard. You just don't listen, do you?" Atlas laughs, a jagged sound Jack doesn't understand. "Never mind. We got ourselves a tyrant to depose, and we can't do that if I'm keeping you here. Run along now." He gives Jack a playful shove, and Jack moves reluctantly. Finds his stained clothing (soaked in cold water and draped over a few chairs to drip; he puts shirt and jumper on wet and barely notices the discomfort).

"I'll be on the radio if you need me," Atlas says, walking him to the door. "Might see if I can dig you up a map, this place is like a rabbit warren for tunnels. And watch out for Big Daddies. There's this incredible thing called _dodging_ , I'm not sure if you've heard of it-"

"I have," Jack assures him.

"Could've fooled me."

Jack hugs him. It's not something he consciously planned to do; it just happens (Atlas feels so warm against his chilled skin and clothing, and better still, he feels _strong_. He'll be fine on his own. Jack doesn't need to worry about his safety), and he's stepping back before Atlas can do anything about it

"Bye," he says, and heads down the corridor at a jog. Into the maze of tunnels that will lead him into the heart of Hephaestus, and to Ryan. It's a long, dark road, but Jack imagines sunlight on his shoulders and back, and fingers stroking through his hair. After that, the journey is easy.


End file.
